Say It!
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: New Years Eve, 1992. Mark really should have known. But somehow, he's managed to miss this crucial tidbit about his best friend. M/R! Mark/Roger. Angel lives just because. Oneshot.


A/N: I have had this lying around in a notebook forever, and I have to say I am quite proud that I finally got off my butt and typed it… Enjoy? :)

Disclaimer: RENT not mine, Roger and Marky not mine…. *sniffles*

Say It!

Mark thought to himself that it really should have been him to realize it first. By all rights, as Roger's best friend and roommate, he should have been the first to know that Roger Davis had a secret. He must have been exceptionally blind not to see it with those thick glasses perched on the bridge of his nose; vaguely, he wondered if he could sue his lens crafter for this.

Roger liked fucking, pure and simple; Everyone knew that, especially Mark. He was a rock star with hundreds of groupies, and all of them together equated to hundreds of nights of vigorous sex. Hundreds of nights where he would come home late from a gig at the Pyramid Club with his leather jacket smelling like sweat and smoke, and alcohol heavy on his breath, with a giggling, scantily clad girl trailing behind him. Hundreds of nights that mark had to leave the loft at two in the morning just to escape the noises- purring, moaning, screaming, hissing, Mark had heard an entire spectrum of noises from beyond Roger's bedroom door.

Mark didn't want to have to meet every one of Roger's fucks. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid seeing them at all, or having to hear their breathy, giggly voices. He locked himself away in his room with his projector and his camera; he stayed out late, until he thought that Roger was probably done for the night, roaming the streets for hours or sitting lonely at a bar without money for a drink.

Maybe that was why he remained oblivious to the fact that, more often than not, the giggling whispers were low and husky and masculine as they followed Roger to his room. That the screaming, the groaning, was far too low to be a woman's voice.

He should have known. It was so painfully obvious that it was ridiculous that Mark, the rock star's BEST FRIEND, couldn't even see it.

Mark knew that the Well Hungarians had their fair share of male groupies besides the females, of course- he'd been one of them way back when. They were in the city, for God's sake. Queers at every turn, crossdressers on every corner, the sexualities becoming so mingled that it seemed as if everyone was bisexual in the world, because everywhere you looked there were boys kissing boys, girls kissing girls, girls kissing boys and turning around and kissing other girls… Just look at Maureen. He'd seen the looks, full of lust, that some of the men trained on Roger through the hazy atmosphere of the bar.

Somehow, he'd never imagined that his roommate would ever take them up on their badly concealed propositions. The thought never crossed his mind that Roger, Roger Davis- self-proclaimed rock god, with the sexiest hair Mark had ever seen, and the smoky green eyes that turned girl's and guy's heads wherever he went- was… was…

Was like him. Like Mark Cohen, closet fairy extraordinaire; twenty three and still afraid to tell his friends that he was as queer as a three dollar bill.

Except Roger WASN'T like him. Roger knew what he wanted and he got it; he didn't bother trying to hide it from anyone. He wasn't scared of what people might think about him. If it felt good then it was good enough for Roger, and the whole world could hate him for it and he'd keep on doing it, for all he cared.

The killer part? Almost everyone in their bohemian group of friends was queer. Collins and Angel, Maureen and Joanne, they were all flamers to their own extent. Mimi was the only one who could consider herself straight- and Roger, or so Mark thought before the New Years Eve party at the loft, circa 1991. None of them would have cared. Hell, they'd probably throw him a party. "Mark's Coming Out of the Closet Bash". He shuddered at the thought.

It was Collins who had known far before him. Collins and Angel. They both had spectacular gaydars. Not that it mattered now. Now, everything was out in the open. Because of Roger. Or perhaps because of the nearly illegal quantities of alcohol he had consumed that night.

Pause. Rewind to New Years Eve of 1991. Enter Mark, for once leaving his camera in his room (at Roger's request), his hands feeling useless without it's weight. Roger, who has been acting strangely around the filmmaker for more than a week, welcomes Collins with a bear hug and a slap on the back. The tall black man has once again brought some of his stash and a good amount of Stoli and Absolut vodka. He knows how to keep the bohemians entertained. Angel enters after him, rapping a beat with her drumsticks, laughing.

Maureen and Joanne arrive, carrying two bags of chips, a large tub of dip and a case of soda. They greet everyone cheerfully. Maureen is dressed in something Mark expected Mimi to wear to work. Speaking of Mimi, she barges in with party hats and noisemakers minutes later, dressed, if possible, more scantily than Maureen herself. She doesn't give Roger a longing look as she might have only a year ago- she's over him, moving on, no day but today.

Fast forward one hour. Somehow, and for the life of him Mark can't remember how, he's ended up sitting on the dusty floor in a circle with the others, and there's a bottle of Absolut in the middle. Everyone has a shot glass in their hand and they're already buzzed. They have persuaded him to play a drinking game with them and for a moment he wonders why he didn't want to.

And then, then Mo thinks it's funny to ask him, "Truth or dare, Marky?" Even though he hates it when she calls him that and she knows it. And he answers with truth, because he can't pick dare- he's a chickenshit. Everyone knows Mark will never pick dare, especially from Maureen.

She asks him, brown eyes big and mischievous, "If you could have sex with one person in this room, without an uncomfortable morning after, who would you fuck?" Mark is wondering how she can think straight enough to use long words like "uncomfortable" while he's drunk off his ass, and he really has to think in order to point in Roger's general direction with his albino-pale arm.

No one seems to think this is strange. He wonders (he's doing an awful lot of this) if he's that obvious about his sexual preferences, or if it's his infatuation with Roger specifically that everyone takes in stride. Either way, he's happy, and he's more than buzzed, and Roger is sitting next to him so their sides touch. Mark can't remember laughing so much, so hard, in his life. It feels nice to be living this moment, instead of viewing it from behind the lens of his camera.

Fast forward one more hour and Collins is sprawled across their duct-taped couch, stoned out of his mind with Angel lying half-asleep on his chest. Occasionally he will yell nonsense or laugh wildly for no apparent reason. Marijuana smoke wafts through the air around him. Maureen is singing along to a portable radio that she apparently brought with her, dancing as Mimi cheers her on and Joanne looks on in amusement from her perch on the window seat. She's probably the least intoxicated out of everyone, and it shows; Mark can't help but think that it has something to do with her level of responsibility as compared to everyone else.

Roger, of course, is smashed just like Maureen. As Mark gazes around the room, he wonders again, this time where his roommate has gotten to, when Maureen turns to the clock on the wall and shrieks.

"5-4-3-2-1- HAPPY NEW YEAR!" Most of them join in for the last part, shouting together. Mo pulls Joanne into a sloppy, drunken kiss and the lawyer obliges, grabbing at her girlfriend's ass. Hm. Maybe she's drunker than she looks. Angel is still on top of Collins, albeit in a much more compromising position. Mimi slumps against the wall, eyes closed and a wide grin plastered across her face. She is alone but happy, unlike Mark, who wishes he had someone to kiss.

This thought is brief, because barely a second after he thinks it he is turned around and slammed into a wall, kissed savagely by one Roger Davis. Before he can figure out what's happened, the ginger-blonde's legs are spread with one of Roger's knees between his thighs, rubbing at the hard bulge in the front of his pants in a way that makes him see flashing lights. One of his roommate's hands is twisted in his short hair, the other sliding down his back and under the waistband of his boxers, grabbing his ass firmly and pushing their hips together. The other man has effectively pinned him to the wall with his body, and his teeth nibbled at Mark's lips, tongue forced into his mouth, caressing and writhing, and all Mark could think was, "How the hell did my hands get in his hair?" but somehow they are, and he barely remembers that it's Roger he'd making out with because it just feels so good.

Roger didn't give him time to react properly. He couldn't think, couldn't process, as the taller man began stumbling towards the bedroom at the end of the hallway, away from the commotion in the living room. He never breaks away from Mark's mouth as he leads him backwards into the room. Roger fumbles with the doorknob, the other running desperately up and down Mark's side underneath his shirt. The sound of the door clicking back into place behind them seemed to be coming from far away; the darkness of the room did nothing to quench the fire that seemed to be spreading through Mark's veins.

"Fuck, fuck, Mark," Roger groaned in his ear, breath hot and moist. The huskiness of his voice made Mark's head spin. Vaguely, he realized that this was his ROOMMATE pulling his shirt over his head and grinding down on him. The alarm bells seemed to have been disabled in the back of his mind, though, because he found himself responding in whimpers instead of protests.

"Rog, shouldn't we- mmph!" Mark's rather feeble attempt at finding logic in the situation was cut off by Roger's tongue in his mouth again. One of the songwriter's hands found its way to his nipples, pinching them to make him gasp; the other was busying itself working on his zipper.

It was safe to say Mark knew that Roger liked men.

As more clothes disappeared and Roger's mouth moved to his neck, nibbling and sucking on the sensitive skin just below his ear, Mark had to wonder what other surprises Roger might have in store for him. And how exactly he had gotten here: pinned onto Roger's bed with his wrists captured in Roger's large, calloused hand above his head, naked and moaning his roommate's name helplessly.

This is about the point where Mark begins to understand something important about Roger; which, he supposes, he should have already known.

How many hundreds of nights had he come home, only to quickly flee again due to the frantic, almost animalistic noises emanating from Roger's room? On more than one occasion, Roger had mentioned things jokingly in conversation: handcuffs, whipped cream, collars. And Mark had always assumed they were jokes, nothing more. Just Roger being Roger.

When he felt the thick material of his scarf being wrapped around his wrists, tying them tightly to the bedposts, he didn't think it was such a bad thing that Roger had so much experience. Actually- his thoughts were momentarily scrambled as his roommate's sinfully hot tongue trailed down his collarbone, his chest, dipping into his navel…- maybe it was a VERY good thing.

"Mark…" Roger's voice was suddenly right in his ear, and the absence of that hot tongue so teasingly close to where he wanted it made him whimper impatiently. As soon as the sound left him, he felt Roger's grip on him tighten and he heard the musician suck in a sharp breath above him.

For a moment Mark was sure he had done something wrong, and Roger was beginning to realize who he had tied to his bedposts.

Then Roger pushed his boxer-clad erection forcefully against his and growled, "Fuck. Do that again." And Mark nearly came right there. A startled moan escaped him, high and needy, and his hips pushed desperately upwards, seeking friction. He was dying to touch, taste, feel- and Roger was fucking TEASING him.

"Fuck…." Roger hissed, drawing out the word as his finger inched closer to his entrance. "You're so fuckin' hot… I'm gonna fuck you so hard into this mattress that you won't remember your own NAME." His already swollen cock hardened impossibly at Roger's words, another strangled moan spilling from his lips as Roger began teasing his dick with his fingers.

"Rog… Rog… ohGod ROGER!" Mark squeaked. One of the musician's fingers was shoved roughly up his ass, covered in saliva, and he saw stars as it inched further inside him and curled suddenly. "FUCK! Roger! Shit, fuck me PLEASE!" he yelled.

Mark swore he saw Roger flash him a wicked grin in the darkness. The taller man slid slowly down his body, leaving a trail of hot kisses down his abdomen and stopping just below his waist. His blond mane tickled Mark's sensitive skin- of course, what was more distracting was the second finger that had followed the first inside of him. He twisted his wrists uselessly against their restraints, eyes squeezed shut at the pleasure pain, moaning Roger's name under his breath.

When the songwriter's tongue flicked over his head at the same time as his fingers curled around a very wonderful place inside of him, Mark thought he would explode. His hips bucked up to meet Roger's mouth, back arching off of the bed wildly. "RogerRogerRogerPLEASE!" It was almost embarrassing, how vocal he was, but the mischievous songwriter seemed to be loving every minute of it.

"Mark, Mark…" His tongue was everywhere, everywhere Mark wanted it to be, and it felt so fucking good. Roger licked up and down, swirled his tongue around the head, and sucked the entire length into his mouth. Mark swore he blacked out for a second. Three fingers now, and the stretching was a bit uncomfortable, but his cock was heavy in Roger's mouth, rubbing on the back of his roommate's throat, and that made the pain completely irrelevant.

Just as he was on the very edge of his orgasm, Roger pulled away. The loss of his mouth had Mark thrashing. He was panting for release, he was RIGHT THERE-

"Do you want me?" came the guitarist's throaty voice in his ear. "Want me to fuck your tight little virgin ass until you scream, Marky? Want my cock inside of you?" The sound of a crinkling condom wrapper… Mark's heart sped past the rational beat, hammering in his chest. Anticipation, so intense his cock throbbed with it, washed over him.

He eventually found his voice, and it cracked with need. "Please. Please, Roger, fuck me. I want you. So fucking bad. NOW."

The sound of a tube of lube being uncapped, squirted into Roger's hands as he rubbed it on his sheathed erection. "I'm gonna make sure you fuckin' scream my name," he promised, positioning himself over the bound and eager Mark. "Ready?"

Instead of waiting for a reply, Roger plunged into his roommate. Mark cried out below him in pain and the musician stilled, allowing him just a minute to adjust before pulling out and shoving back in. Hard.

"Roger!" he gasped, still overwhelmed by red pain. "God! Go slow, you asshole!"

"Shhh, Marky, it gets better," he replied soothingly. Then, sweet Roger was gone again, and he was being pounded into the mattress.

Half a minute passed, and Mark understood what Roger had meant. The pain was fading into the bright sparks of pleasure as Roger angled his hips just right to hit his prostate. He became aware that he was arching up towards the other man again, toes curled and wrists twisting against his scarf. Roger's hands held his hips in place, mouth against his neck licking and nibbling the skin where his shoulder met his neck, sucking and biting hard enough to leave bruises.

Suddenly, Roger stopped- once again as Mark was so close to his orgasm that he could feel it I the tips of his fingers and toes. "You're my fucking bitch, Cohen," he whispered, earning a loud whimper in response. "You're my BITCH." A pause, in which Mark moaned incoherently, begging. "Say it."

"Please, please, Roger, I want you!" he begged, but Roger shook his head.

"Say it. You're my fucking bitch." The other man's fingers were being very distracting, pulling languidly on his aching dick.

"Roger…" Mark breathed, hips bucking up unintentionally. "Fuck, I can't- they, they're still out there aren't they?" He suddenly remembered the existence of his friends, whom they'd left drunk and high in their living room. "Fuck, they're probably- OH."

Roger shifted, hitting that spot again and rubbing teasingly against it. "Say it, Marky. You know it's true. Say. It. Now." The last part was a command, a growl that went straight to Mark's groin.

"Fuck. Fuck. Alright, I'm your bitch. I'm your fucking bitch!" he yelled, and Roger moaned under his breath. "Roger, Roger, fuck me! God! I'm your bitch! Fuck!" he screamed as Roger thrust into him with new vigor.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Mark opened the door with a goofy grin plastered on his face, Roger's hand held loosely in his. This was it- he was going to come out to his friends, all at once, in the afterglow of his sex with Roger. He didn't know exactly where this was going, he and Roger, but he knew that his roommate would be there for him when he told everyone. He blinked, mouth opening in surprise, when he came face to face with Collins. Behind him, the other bohemians jostled for a good look, thoroughly amused and giggling.

"Damn, Mark!" Collins laughed, staring pointedly at his still sore neck and then at his and Roger's hands, entwined as they were. "I didn't know!"

Mark blushed crimson, while Roger just smirked. "Shut up, Tom," he muttered, pushing his way past. "I need a drink…"

The party commenced, and it was indeed a happy new year.


End file.
